


3 Swords

by PluieTheWolf



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Mainly swords tbh, Swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23279506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PluieTheWolf/pseuds/PluieTheWolf
Summary: ‘In stories, as in war, the first and most important thing to establish is how many swords there are, who has them, and, perhaps most critically – do any have a name?’A story about a village with three swords.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 1





	3 Swords

> ‘In stories, as in war, the first and most important thing to establish is how many swords there are, who has them, and, perhaps most critically – do any have a name?’
> 
> Chronicler Amity, _The Dictionary of All Things_

As far as most in Eks were concerned there was only one sword in the village, or one that mattered, and when such an object exists in solitude it has no need of a name. It is merely the sword, without even the grandeur of capitalisation.

It was Harn who presently held the sword, a farmer who could be trusted to command the respect of almost all, and beat most in an arm wrestle, earning them the honorary title of Captain of the Eks Militia.

The lack of further swords among the ranks of the Eks Militia did not signal an utter pacificity, or lack of preparedness. No, The people of Eks were instead much more accustomed to use of the bow, a custom rooted in practicality, with opportunities for useful practice as numerous as the beasts in the woods, and the position of Eks allowing both good views of trouble approaching, and plenty of secret places to retire to if it arrived.

Trouble had not come to Eks since the longest stretch of living generations. Only three of the eldest remembered running in the night and holding close against the shouts of soldiers, and only one of those loosed a string whose arrow flew over a passing head (although now they swear it struck). The Captain then never clashed into steel or sunk into flesh with the sword, just as Harn now never has. They received it with pride and trepidation from their predecessor. They were shown by hands only slightly less ignorant than their own how to hold and swing. They kept it polished and sharp. They occasionally, in a field or a clearing, engaged in a bashful dance with phantom foes. They were sure, if they ever had to draw it in earnest, they would die.

Most in Eks knew of the second sword, though they would laugh if you named it as such. The Mountain’s Spine was not a weapon in the eyes of the villagers, but a joke, a fiction. The vast length of steel which hung above the hearth at Grett’s could be lifted by several in the village – it was a popular sport amongst the young and the drunk – but it was impossible to think it could be used for any effective martial effort. Instead it was believed to be the tool, probably, of some charlatan or storyteller, expounding on the lore of the giants who – didn’t you know – once roamed these hills and who – I have heard – still live in the lands far beyond the river. For the people of Eks the actual existence of these giants was more believable, even, than that the ability to wield such a grand weapon was granted by training and techniques of the Knights of the Lucky Few, only one of whom had ever ventured even close to this territory, and lost their weapon in an unfortunate run in with a ravine.

Few were aware of the third sword in Eks, though she was not hidden by any person. The Weaver, Whisper of Blood, Gentle Silence, Utterance had had many more names than that over her lifetime, but for clarity we will use these few. She had been a king’s sword, a wizard’s sword, a sword picked up by a scared page from their fallen master, a sword which strove, always, to sway her bearer’s hand to justice, though she sometimes worried what that might be, and she sat now, rusted in her scabbard, amongst a pile of cast-offs and miscellany in the blacksmith of a small village who only knew of a sword with no name.

She had been wielded by a Baroness, largely fair and reasonable in their actions, when she had realised she wanted a rest from fighting. She had worked gradually to loosen her scabbard from her fastening and, though occasionally foiled by a particularly thorough servant, was successful enough that when she saw her opportunity, as the Baroness rode through a thick briar, she slipped loose, and rolled just so that the shadow obscured her in the soil. Over days and weeks, and long after any search for her had subsided, she let the slope draw her downward, and into the water.

There she sat, and let water soak in near her hilt, so that she became thoroughly fused with her scabbard, not to be drawn to draw blood soon, even if she were drawn from the water. There she lay, as the water flowed over and the fish flashed past. She drifted so, so slowly in the flow, and even slower in her thoughts, trickling through memories, or sinking into reflection. 

But eventually, while she enjoyed the bubbling of passing shoals, and the swirling of water grass, she missed the fond familiar babbling of humans. She let herself be carried further downstream and up onto a bank, there to be discovered by a travelling merchant who, undiscouraged by The Weaver’s useless state, was sure they could pawn it off on some fool.

Now Whisper of Blood sat in the corner of the Eks blacksmith, leaning contentedly behind a gate post, a poker with a handle far too elaborate for its surroundings, and several lengths of wood waiting to be used as the handles of hoes. Here she happily listened to the happenings in the village, everyday moanings, the laughter of children. She had no worry for her safety – no fears of hot hammers, or of notions towards usefulness. Rodol, as well as a blacksmith, was something of a collector, or a hoarder to some. This is why none of the conning or tricks the merchant had expected had any part in their parting with the sword – for while Rodol was a fan of what many would call rubbish, they were no fan at all of bullshit, and always paid low for the knick knacks they accumulated. And so they passed over a small coin for Gentle Silence, put her in her place, occasionally brought her out, just to look at, or to run a cloth over her patterned hilt, and, for the most part, put her to the back of their mind.

And so Eks sat, a village with three swords, and little need of one.

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of the beginning of a novel that I'll probably never finish, inspired by [this tweet](https://twitter.com/JustinMcElroy/status/1232294864844402688?s=20).
> 
> You can find me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/PluieTheWolf).


End file.
